


Close My Eyes and See

by Mohini



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dreams, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 22:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16127840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: Dreams have a way of showing us what we're not willing to face in the daylight.





	Close My Eyes and See

_Come back!_   
_Even as a shadow,_   
_Even as a dream._   
_\- Heracles;  Euripides_

It’s always the same dream. Bucky, on that table in Zola’s lab, looking exhausted and hurt and so damn wrong that Steve both desperately wants to wake up to make the image go away and rescue his friend just a little bit sooner so that he wouldn’t have been there at all. But then, he really wouldn’t have been there, because whatever Zola did meant Buck survived the fall and it meant that he’s still alive, somewhere, in the body of a weapon given human form. No, a human made into a weapon. That’s the way he has to think of it, him, the soldier. Because he knows his Bucky is in there. He has to be.

  
There’s no point continuing to sit in the dark. He knows he won’t go back to sleep. Even if he did, he’d wake to the same images. Sunken eyes, too thin limbs, hands that shook when he thought no one was watching. 

He could watch a movie, one of the endless films on the lists he keeps making but never quite getting around to following. He could read a book, but when he does that he hears Buck’s voice that summer when the pneumonia damn near killed him and Buck read him every bit of Tolkien he could get his hands on. No, books are definitely out. 

There’s the gym, but that’s nothing but heavy bags he breaks off their moorings and treadmills that smoke when he tries to turn them up fast enough. Kitchen it is. Cabinets filled with food that tastes like cardboard or sugar syrup with nothing in between. 

The light’s on already, and it’s too late to turn around and retreat to the privacy of his own quarters. Natasha is standing at the stove, a kettle in front of her and her hair pulled into a messy knot at the back of her head. She looks so young, and Steve has to wonder just how like him she is. In the time since he was brought out of the ice, he’s watched the rest of the team begin to age, the weight of avenging visible in small lines at their eyes and exhaustion beneath them. Never Nat, though. She looks as unchanged as he does. The fact that she’s enhanced is no secret, but the level of skill she possesses is difficult for him to buy within the timeline she spouts. 

“Can’t sleep?” she asks, without turning to look at him. Of course she’d know he’s there. She can probably hear a mouse three floors up. 

“Slept enough,” he tries to defend, and fails. 

“Steve, it’s three in the morning. No one gets enough sleep before now. Try again.”

“Slept for 70 years and that worked out real well,” Steve grumbles, and Natasha raises one eyebrow with a knowing look. 

“He’ll come find you,” she says, reaching forward and putting one slim hand on Steve’s forearm. 

“He didn’t recognize me.”

“You don’t know that. He’s, look, just trust me. He’s a ghost, but he’s your ghost.”

“M’not lucky enough to be a ghost,” Steve mutters, and he bites his lip the moment he realizes the words have escaped him. 

Natasha fixes him with a stare that knows too much. Far too much. “None of us are, Steve.” 

The words are gentle as she guides him to a chair at the table with more suggestion than force in the grip at his arm. He pillows his head in his arms there, no longer caring what she thinks of him. Natasha holds a lifetime of secrets with ease. He thinks maybe he can trust her with a few of his as well. 

“I left him,” he whispers. 

Two hands grip his shoulders, applying alternating pressure and kneading the tight muscles. Something in the way it loosens up the knots loosens something else and he finds himself losing tears to the images that won’t stop playing behind closed eyes. Haunted, hooded eyes watching him on the long march back to camp. Sharp, vigilant eyes behind the sniper’s rifle keeping him safe on countless missions. Wide, terrified eyes fading into the ether beneath a train car. Blank, cold eyes asking him who the hell is Bucky. 

Time passes and Natasha’s hands keep moving, pressing into the knotted muscles he hadn’t even realized could relax. It hurts. It hurts more than he thinks he can stand until it doesn’t, and he’s limp and pliant, the knots released and the tears run dry. A hand rubs slowly up and down the line of his spine as he calms. Tired. So tired now. The hand leaves and returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug. 

Bitter, hot tea with a hint of the flavor of berries. Jam, he remembers. Natasha puts jam in her tea. A Russian thing. Or so she’s told him. He doesn’t care. It’s warm, and it chases the chill of the images, the hurt, the failure from his very bones. They sit together, sharing their tea and waiting in silence for dawn to come. 


End file.
